


Tired

by DaisyFairy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring John, Caring Sherlock, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Sherlock, First Kiss, First Time, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Sexual Content, Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-13 14:10:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7979554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyFairy/pseuds/DaisyFairy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>{I'm so tired, my eyelids droop everytime my attention wanders away from the monumental task of keeping them open. The office chair I am sitting in suddenly feels like the most comfortable place of repose ever designed by human hands as my body looses all muscle tension.}</p><p>Sherlock is exhausted after a week long case with no sleep. Sherlock is in love with John, but does John feel the same, or is he just being a good friend?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Asleep

I'm so tired, my eyelids droop everytime my attention wanders away from the monumental task of keeping them open. The office chair I am sitting in suddenly feels like the most comfortable place of repose ever designed by human hands as my body looses all muscle tension. My higher brain switching of and relinquishing control to the primitive hind brain to carry out its caretaking role of making sure that the important things like breathing carry on. Giving the keys to the designated driver.

"Sherlock?"

I try to open my eyes to see who is calling me. Sounds like John, but my brain is fuzzy so I can't be sure. My eyes open a crack, but the small sliver is instantly filed with tears from my overtired tear ducts so all I can see is a wavering kaleidoscope of colours. The lids feel like they are pulled down with the weight of too many hours awake. They flutter between open and closed a few times before sliding down one final time. The shutters are down, the shop is closed. My ears strain for another piece of evidence as to the identity of the man calling me, but suddenly my lungs need more air, a large yawn overtakes me and by the time I have done that I have forgotten about the voice.

My head tips to the side to rest on my shoulder, and my brain resumes its task of closing down. Piece by piece I relinquish control, my breathing becoming slower and deeper. I gradually become aware of pressure on my upper arm, a monumental effort of will forces my eyes open a crack, I stare at the hand. It squeezes gently and says "We need to get you home."

Ahh, little hand, what a lovely idea, to be in my own bed, but this is where I live now, here in this chair, that I am vaguely aware belongs to Lestrade. Well he will have to find somewhere else to sit, there is no force on earth that could move me now. I can feel myself sinking, down, down, into the chair, my body melding with the faux leather to become one, irreversibly joined entity. No purpose remains other than sleep. Nothing else could possibly matter. Even if the room were aflame I would not move, would welcome the lack of oxygen stealing the breath away from me and deepening this sleep into the repose of the dead. I feel the hand squeeze again, can not see it as my brain has now closed the visual centres. A small sleepy smile tugs my lips and a tiny groan, more a large puff of air than anything, escapes from the confines of my chest.

A slow gasp, an inhalation of air, stretching my lungs once more, then an equally slow exhalation, my lips and vocal chords forming around the single word John, which comes out as an almost silent whisper. Then one more yawn, a last attempt to obtain oxygen to wake my mind, but it is for naught, my head lolls to the other shoulder, away from the hand which must surely be attached to that most precious of humans. 

Then there it is, complete shut down. No further communication with the outside world, I rest in the fluffy cocoon of my mind. Hazy with fog, and for once free of the nightmares that normally plague me, it seems even the monsters that lurk inside are too tired to come out to play tonight. 

I feel gravity shift, suddenly everything is flipped, risking a peek out of my sanctuary through a keyhole I spy a blue checked shirt tucked into the waistband of a pair of sturdy jeans. My view is of the rear of the waistband, shirt at the bottom from my point of view, waistband above, and topped off with a pair of lovely buttocks, upside down. John's buttocks, I should know, I have surreptitiously studied them often enough. I move away from the keyhole to settle back into the marshmallow pillows in my mind. Any world in which my eyes are mere inches away from John's arse is one in which John is with me, and he can take care of any troubling problems with gravity that we should encounter. I should be safe to stay here for a little longer. 

A small voice in the corner of mind, one which until recently had been shoved into a dungeon but since John's arrival in my life had been allowed out more regularly, is trying to get my attention. It is trying to point out the advantages that could be conferred by my eyes, and by extension presumably my mouth, being so close to John's behind. If the fog in here was not so dense perhaps I would pay attention, but it is thick and becoming thicker, whiting my vision and deadening sound. Any activities necessary or allowed can be handled by John, or can wait until the weariness has passed. Everything goes black and I enter oblivion.  
\-----

A sudden jolt and a loud bang make my eyelids jerk up a fraction before slowly descending once more. "Car!" a distant voice inside declares, then gives up providing more conclusions due to lack of further visual input. I crack my eyelids once more, tears forming as my eyeballs protest, they have no desire to come out of hiding. The tears run down my cheeks as my eyeballs are forced to work, dragging slowly over the car interior "Taxi" the voice inside proclaims, proud of this tiny feat of deduction. As I force myself to swivel my eyes to the extreme right I catch a glimpse of a knee and hand. Someone is with me. I allow my head to drop to the right, onto my shoulder, which affords a much better view. I can see John's trousers, John's jacket, John's hand. I can't see his face, not without further movement, and now that my head is pillowed on my shoulder, as bony as it may be, it has no inclination to move anywhere. However the way that John's fingers are moving, just small movements but there nonetheless, and the lack of blood all over his clothing, suggests that his head is still attached to his shoulders just as it should be. 

I hear him say to me through a wall of cotton wool "Are you back with us? Sherlock, are you in there?"

My lips tug into the tiniest smile "Still here John." I think, as I allow the darkness to claim me. John is here, I am safe.

\-----

Giggling. Giggling. I can hear laughter. I am at school and as the teacher explains the workings of the heart I tell everyone how I had dissected a dead mouse I had found and looked at its tiny, tiny heart. I called it cute. Then it started. Everyone laughed, said I was a freak. Always wary of laughter since then. Risk a peek, no, eyes won't cooperate any more. We've done our part they insist, let one of the other senses take over for a bit. Ears are good. Listen. Who is laughing? Why? Laughing at me?

A yawn followed by a yawn deep inhalation through my nose provides olfactory evidence. Try to analyse all of the scents but all that comes back from the deduction centres is "fuck off, we're closed" followed by a much quieter response of "home."

Home. Baker Street . Is John still here?

Words, there are words, gibberish, can't understand. Then the laugh again and a high pitched twitter in response. I curl inward, shame, laughing at me, hide, hide myself, keep safe. Then pressure against my scalp, even as bone tired as I am I tense, expecting the hand to tighten in my hair, pulling, wrenching, holding me, and then the blow will follow. Punishment for being wrong, being bad, being a freak. I tense but cannot wake enough to move away, cannot crack an eyelid, cannot escape, body still sleeping even as my mind trembles. Then the pressure against my head becomes a gentle rub, a hand cupping my skull, holding me, cradling the most precious part of me. Fingers are scratching gently through my hair, it feels like protection, worship of my brain that is encased within. The small amount of tension I had been able to coax from my muscles dissipates. 

The words again, a deeper voice, I still cannot understand, but the speech pattern, the intonation, John, here still. Then the higher voice, a teasing tone even if the words elude me, but not harsh, gentle teasing, Mrs Hudson. I am safe. The laughter was not cruel, for they would never treat me so. 

I relax further, sinking away from this reality as the fingers continue to card through my hair. I do not know which of them is caressing me, but it feels like love.

\------

Wet, why is there wet? Cool liquid sloshes against my lips, the hard glass containing it pressed against my lower lip. An arm is holding me up into a seated position. A voice through a fog, I listen, I try. John. 

"Please drink just a little Sherlock, then I'll let you sleep. I don't think you've drunk anything all day."

I manage to open my visual centre, my eyes flutter open, it hurts a little, the light stings and my lids have crusted closed, the skin pulls as I force my eye lids up. There he is, full of concern, tired eyes, his lids sagging almost as much as mine, a faint smile on his lips as he sees I am awake. 

"Hello. Just drink a little and I'll let you sleep."

I smile against the glass and a rivulet of water escapes past the rim and dribbles down my chin.

"Shit!" He withdraws the glass and uses the sleeve of his shirt to mop up the spill from my chin and throat, although most has already soaked into the collar of my shirt.

My doctor, looking after me still, even in his own exhaustion. My smile widens and I reach out a hand, fasten around his wrist, to still his movements. I will survive a few drops of water, he need not be concerned. I try to talk, but he is right, haven't drunk in so long my lips feel sealed together, and even when prised apart only a croak will emerge. I release his arm and the glass returns, I eagerly swallow a few mouthfuls. I want more but it is withdrawn.

"Take it slow yeah, have more in a minute." That beloved voice murmurs. 

This strikes me as unaccountably funny and I try to laugh, all that emerges is a huff. I am an expert after all at taking it slow. Too slow, too long.

He lowers me back onto the coach, leaning over me as he does so. My eyes are threatening to close again, My fingers return to his wrist. I tighten my grip, and my other hand comes up behind him and clutches his shirt. He cannot leave. Too slow, it's been too slow.

He tries to pull away, to return to kneeling next to me on the floor instead of being draped over me as I recline. I hold fast, my arms tense with the effort of keeping him. It is hard, my tired muscles protest, if he was not so tired, if he was really trying to leave, I could not prevent it, but I hold on, my chest aches with the ghost of loneliness that will join me if he goes.

He sags, giving in. It is a hollow victory. A surrender against a force that he did not have energy to fight, rather than enthusiastic reciprocation that I long for. Hollow, but victory nonetheless. I am not alone as I have been for almost every other night of my whole life.

My eyes close, I sigh in contentment, but he fidgets above me. Does not want to be here. Hot tears prickle, I must let go, it is wrong to make him stay, and I haven't the strength to hold any longer in any case. My fingers release, he is free. I do not even try to watch. I don't want to see him move away.

He is gone, the coldness seeping into my chest where moments before his warm mass had warmed me. A sob escapes, just one. Then suddenly I am lifted, I am seated again, then the glass is back against my lips.

"Just a few more sips. I know you can do it."

I do. For him. Just a little more.

"Well done Love."

My brain freezes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter was a bit of an experiment. I wrote it over several nights and only when I was exactly as tired as Sherlock is. Only edited when awake for typos (there were lots, at one point I had tried to write on my touch screen with my eyes closed) but did not change word choices, apart from fixing John's clothes where sleepy me could not decide what he was wearing.
> 
> The rest of this had been written by a much more awake version of me and will be posted over the next few days.


	2. Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes up.

Light. I can see red light through my eyelids, my blood turning the golden sunlight crimson before it reaches my retinas. And warm. The light is warm. I inhale and it smells like home. A pillow beneath my head and a mattress below me, I am on my bed. I open my eyes slowly, blinking against the brightness, and I can estimate from the angle of the shafts of light entering my window that it must be almost 9am.

My curtains are open. I do not use my bed every night, but when I do I close the curtains to avoid being awoken as I have been this morning. Why didn't I close them? 

I cast my mind back to the previous evening. We had solved the case, I had been waiting in Lestrade's office for word that the ring leaders had been rounded up, and then... disjointed images, impressions both auditory and olfactory. I spend several minutes arranging this into a narrative and conclude that I had fallen asleep and John had brought me home. John, who had had little more sleep than I had over the last week, had carried me to a cab, then manhandled me into the flat to the couch, and presumably into my bedroom. I smile to myself, then gasp as I remember what he said as he was making me drink.

"Well done Love." Love. He had called me love. My breathing quickens and I realise I am beginning to hyperventilate. I close my eyes and try to concentrate on my breathing. In, slowly, it stutters, out, a series of small huffs rather than a smooth exhale, in, slightly better, out, one long breath. A few more even breaths and I feel calm enough to consider John's words again. 

"Well done Love." The first part is easy, "Well done", praise, praise from John has always enticed me. Even for the simplest thing, makes me see myself as good, whilst almost everyone else has tried to knock me down John builds me up with his words. It is the last word that catches my attention. Love. My love for him is undeniable, but to have it reciprocated? That is an impossible dream. 

He called me love. He cares for me of course, and he was in the role of caregiver last night. Oh, of course. He had not meant it literally, it was meant in the way that someone would call a child Love. Someone that is under your protection. Someone you care about, and, yes, love, but not in the romantic sense. The small hope that has been fluttering inside settles back to its home, the small hole carved behind my ribs where it lives and aches.

I lay still, just breathing. Try to find a way to reconcile this, to seal that hope away, so that it can't escape again, so I can see John in our flat without it exploding out of my chest. I have almost managed, when I remember the caress, the gentle fingers in my hair. 

I clench my fists and every muscle tenses, I want to cry. Whatever kind of love it meant, whoever that had been, it had been love. I had felt loved in a way that I could not remember having felt since I was a child, protected from the world by my mother. It was so good, and now it is gone, and I do not know how to ask for it again. 

I know Mrs Hudson loves me, but we have never spoken of it, and to admit that I want a physical demonstration of that love would feel inappropriate. After all, I do have a mother, I should not ask for that from another woman. And if it was John, if it was, I could never ask for that, a physical caress to show love between friends, that is not what friends do, the fact that he pulled away while I held him to me proves that physical affection is not something he wants from me.

I will likely never have that feeling again, and it is only half remembered. A few tears make tracks between the outer corners of my eyes and my ears, filling the whorls and then soaking into the pillow.

My door opens and Mrs Hudson bustles in with a tray. I hastily wipe the tears away with the cuffs of my shirt as she busies herself setting the tray down on my desk. She turns and gasps at seeing me awake.

"Oh, my poor heart. I thought you were asleep." She clutches a hand to her chest dramatically and smiles kindly. "I brought you tea and toast. Oh, I forgot the honey, I'll be right back." 

She goes back out of the door, I can see that her hip is bothering her and I try to call to say that she needn't bother but my voice emerges as a croak. A few minutes later she reappears with a jar of honey and sets about spreading it onto my toast.

"You didn't have to do this." I say quietly, unable to speak louder with my dry throat, feeling guilty that my elderly landlady is hobbling around fetching me breakfast.

"Don't be silly dear, you need looking after. I know you worked yourself into the ground helping those kiddies, I'm so proud of you making sure that they could all sleep safe in their beds last night."

Foster home and child protection centre beds at least, I think. Unlikely any of them will be going home for some time, if ever, but yes, they are safe. I refrain from correcting her.

She passes me tea and I take a few sips, the liquid feels wonderful, easing my throat, so my next words come out sounding much more confident.

"Thank you for helping John with me last night. I don't really remember, but I know you were there."

"Of course I was dear. Poor man was dead on his feet. Not that I did much, just helped him with the doors and taking your shoes off. It was quite late I'm afraid so I left him to it, he didn't mention he was bringing you in here or I would have stayed to help."

I wiggle my toes, realising consciously for the first time that, yes, my shoes had been removed.

"I remember someone rubbing my head." I blurt out. I hold my breath. Stupid. Stupid, why did I say that? 

She smiles gently as she places the plate of toast on my bedside table. "Oh, that was John dear. We were just talking about how you managed to put those clues together and he was joking about how he was amazed you could fit all of those brains in your head without them spilling out of your ears. I think he was so tired he was a little drunk on it to be honest, poor man. I'll take him some tea up in a minute."

I swallow thickly. It had been John.

"I'll do it. You don't need to go up another flight of stairs with your hip." And I want to see him. His love for me is platonic, but love nonetheless. He looked after me, and I want to return the favour.

She tries to smother a smile, but is not quick enough and reaches out to squeeze my shoulder. "Of course dear. Thank you. My hip has been playing me up these last few days. I'll just leave you boys to it then." That simple touch sparks directly to my brain, physical affection. I am grateful for it, but it is not enough to drown out my longing for John to touch me. Right now anything would be amazing, a brush against his arm, fingers touching as I pass his tea. I dare not think of the possibility of a caress like last night. 

I suddenly realise that Mrs Hudson has finished fussing with the tray and is halfway out of the door. "Thank you." I call, for the tea, for the toast, for everything.

"Call me if you need anything." She replies and I hear her unsteady steps towards the flat door, then a creak of hinges and the door closing softly, so as not to wake John.

I finish my breakfast, barely tasting but grateful for it, food is another thing that has been neglected this past week. Whilst eating I try to decide what to do. John is unlikely to be awake for a while, he needs more sleep than me, and had been exhausted even before carrying me around London. I hope that I have not made his shoulder hurt, it is ok for the most part, but I'm not exactly light.

My mind keeps wandering, replaying John calling me Love, even though I know it means nothing, and the feel of his fingers in my hair. Stupid. I need to stay on track. I need a plan so he won't feel awkward about what happened. Should I mention it? Make a joke about how he had been so tired he didn't know what he was doing? Ignore it? After all he might not remember. 

I am pondering this when I realise. These things that happened are monumental to me, but for John he simply uttered a phase used by millions when they are caring for someone, and touched my head to emphasise a point made in a joke. Perhaps he had rubbed my scalp in a caring way, but he has never hidden the fact that he cares about me. To John what happened will seem ordinary, nothing of note, and I must act as if they are unimportant events too.

Time to stop prevaricating, John will likely wake up soon. I rise from my bed and go straight to the kitchen to set about making his breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is set entirely inside John's bedroom, make of that what you will.


	3. John's Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our two idiots manage to make something that should be simple into a complete rollercoaster.

Once John's breakfast is ready I hesitate at the bottom of the stairs. A cup of tea and a few slices of toast do not seem enough to show my appreciation for everything that John had done. I consider going to get something more substantial from Speedy's, but don't want to risk John waking and finding me gone. A few more moments of indecision then I steel myself and take the first step.

At the top I open the door quietly, peering inside, I see that John is asleep fully clothed on top of his bed sheets, and he has also neglected to close his curtains. I feel a wave of guilt that after taking care of me he had obviously been too exhausted to prepare himself properly for bed. I must still be suffering from the effects of a week without sleep, I feel like a raw nerve this morning, every little thing seems to spark a new wave of sentiment that I can barely contain.

I place the mug and plate on John's bedside unit, taking care not to make a sound.

He snuffles and shifts onto his side. His features are smoothed in sleep , his gold and silver hair shines in the morning light. My fingers twitch, itch to touch, to show John how he is loved the same way he showed me, I think of chaste touch, a pat to the shoulder, ruffle his hair. 

The rise of his hip calls to me and I long to caress, my fingertips could slip just under his shirt hem where it has ridden up and graze the bare skin of his waist. My breath catches, I could skim my fingers up to his ribs, a feather light touch to his golden skin. I imagine moving my hand around from the side of his ribs to his nipple, would it harden under my touch? Would he gasp in surprise? I could lick them...no. I can't touch, even if I hold back and only touch briefly and chastely it is not appropriate. My feelings are so much deeper, it would be taking what had not been given. To touch him now would be to fuel my imagination in directions that he would be appalled at if he knew. 

He shifts on the bed again, beginning to wake, it seems my estimate had been fairly accurate. His eyelids flutter and he takes a deep breath, which becomes a yawn, I must ensure he sleeps again once he has eaten, our (my) exploits have obviously taken a severe toll.

His eyes open and are momentarily unfocused, I'm an intruder to this most private moment, to the softness of John as he wakes. A second, maybe two and his eyes alight upon me, recognition, and then his whole expression lights up in the most brilliant smile I have ever seen on his beautiful face. I am exposed, he is staring with such intensity, he must surely see the emotion leaking out of me, I have been like a dripping tap of sentiment ever since I woke.

In an effort to deflect his attention I say "I made you breakfast, tea and toast with jam," but in my nervousness I cannot help but bite my lip after this declaration.

John glances at the breakfast and if such a thing were possible his grin becomes even wider. "Thank you." He says, as if I did not owe him this and more, as if he had not earned my everlasting devotion with his loyalty, care and the way that he loves me, even if it isn't enough, it could never be enough, but it is more than I had ever expected to receive in this life and I am grateful.

He starts to sit, and I feel a guilty tug inside at the stiffness I can see in his movements, his shoulder is troubling him and it is my fault. I should leave, I can't just stand in his room and watch him eat (can I?...no). I turn to go.

"You were brilliant. With the case I mean. You ARE brilliant."

I turn back to face him, my heart tugging even more. I'm trying, I really am, but I can't control my face, I can't hide myself anymore, not from him. It's all there for him to see, the longing, the love I feel for him, the pain that he doesn't love me the same, the gratitude that he is in my life at all and for the love that he does feel for me. I need to leave, to run, my heart is racing, tears are spilling from my eyes, I can hardly catch my breath.

"Oh, Sherlock, come here."

He holds his arms out in invitation. He wants to comfort me. I can't go to him, he doesn't understand, he sees but he doesn't realise that he is cause and cure for my pain. He is the problem and he is the one that I want to comfort me. I take a step back, escape, need to get out.

John climbs off the bed and moves towards me. I freeze. Suddenly his arms are around me.

"It's ok. It's ok Sherlock." He wants to take care of me, I sink into his embrace.

"What's happening to me?" I need him to tell me. I've loved him so long, but its never been this overwhelming before.

"Come on, it's ok," he's pulling me towards the bed. "It's this case. I always tell you to be more understanding of the victims, to stop being so detached, and you've been doing so well with that, but, I'm sorry, with this case you would have been better not thinking about them."

I shake my head. No. I haven't been thinking about the case, that isn't the problem.

"When we see awful things it makes us want to be safe, want to be with the people we love. I know I need a hug right now."

He needs me. My arms are stiff at my sides, but he needs me so I lift them and put them around his waist.

He is pulling me onto the bed, making me lie down with him, our arms still wrapped around each other. This isn't right. It doesn't mean anything to him, just comforting a friend, I need to get myself under control and leave. I can't, I am beginning to get hard in my trousers, my body doesn't understand that this isn't real.

We are so close, we are on our sides facing one another, I am lower on the bed, my face pressed into his neck. I can feel his breath against my scalp. He is pulling me closer, I can't help trembling. His arm has slipped lower, down to my lower back, and now he tightens his arms. No. No. He'll feel, he'll know. I try to wriggle back, keep my pelvis away from him, but he's too strong. Suddenly I'm pressed against him, my erection is against his thigh, he must feel it. He's going to be shocked. He's going to move out.

"I'm sorry." I whisper, clutching at him, tears flowing again and soaking into his shirt.

"Hush." He whispers into my hair. Then I feel a press of lips against my forehead, he pushes his pelvis forward and I feel something pushing into my stomach. He, he... he's also hard? Why? What? I tip my head back to look up at his face and find that he is looking down at me. I feel vulnerable in this position, used to being taller, but it is John so it should be safe.

He kisses my forehead, not just a touch of lips but an actual kiss. My eyes widen, I can't understand what is happening, does he feel it too? Hope has escaped from its niche inside again, just like last night it flutters against my ribs.

He smiles and whispers "Hey, it's ok. We both need this right now." He grinds his pelvis against me slowly.

My world crashes down. Now. He wants this now. When he is sad. When he feels bad because of the case. He needs comfort now. But just now. Not later, not tomorrow, not forever. Hope shrivels and dies. I want to say no. Doing this when it means nothing will destroy me, but I don't think I could deny him if my life depended on it. 

He moves down the bed, aligning our groins and rolling his hips, pressing us together, separated only by four thin layers of fabric. I gasp as a jolt goes through me. It feels so good, so much.

My hips stutter forward, seeking more friction and my arms tighten around his back. It is wonderful and terrible. I long to say it, the three words that would tell him of my devotion, let him knew how adored he is, destroy our friendship and make him stop this before we have found our release. I should, he should know, I shouldn't trick him when he thinks it's just sex. But his hand is undoing his fly, he is pushing his trousers down. I need this just as much as he does, and if it leaves me a hollow shell, at least I will have this memory.

I watch as he pushes his pants down and springs free, he moves his hands to begin fumbling with the fastening of my trousers. His penis is there, right there, long and hard and thick, so thick, with dampness at the head. I want to touch, to taste, to feel him inside of me, but this isn't real. I can't help the sob that tears its way out of my throat.

He stops, he was looking down but now he looks up and our eyes lock.

"What is it Love?"

"Don't." I reply, don't call me that when you don't mean it.

He jerks away to the far side of the bed and struggles to pull his pants back up, he looks stricken as he says "I'm sorry, I thought you wanted this. I, I thought you loved me too."

Too? Loved him too? But, too would imply, would mean. Too? Too would mean that he, he loves me.

"Too? You love me?"

He grabs my upper arms and stares into my eyes "Yeah, I do. Course I do. Do you love me?' He sounds worried, unsure, scared.

"Yes." I breath the word, not sure he could even hear it "Yes. Yes!" Louder, surer. Examine his face, it's true, I can see it now. He loves me. Hope doesn't bloom inside me, I don't need hope anymore. Certainty, steely and strong, that is what is inside now. He loves me. I lean in and kiss those lips, I have dreamed for so long and now I can feel them, firm against my own. I lick them and John understands, his lips part and his tongue is there. Warm and wet, we are licking and tasting, he is inside my mouth, and I am inside of him.

I am on my back, he's above me, caging me, holding me, kissing me. I'm giggling and I can't stop, so is he. He's kissing my cheek, my neck, my chest where his clever fingers have worked my shirt buttons lose. Kissing between his giggles. All I can do is laugh with joy, my fingers are in his hair, caressing the way he did to me last night. He loves me. 

His hand are roaming, his touch electric, they have reached my waist, and he looks up at me licking his lips.

He wants me, wants to, to have sex. "Please." I gasp, and within seconds my trousers and pants are gone, he lifts me and removes my shirt, and I am naked. I should feel nervous, naked while he is fully clothed, powerless underneath another man, trapped in his bed, but I just feel happiness. This. This is what I want.

"Forever?" It's too soon, I know, too soon for commitments or long term plans, I shouldn't have asked. But his reply comes anyway.

"God yes!" He said yes! He said yes!

Moments later John's clothes are in a heap on the floor, and here we are, together, at last. John, all I can see is John. I've waited so long, too long, a wait made harder by believing that the end destination would never arrive. I pull him to me, his heavy weight pushes me down into the mattress as I wrap my arms around him and hold on tight. I kiss his cheek, his neck, I never want to let go. 

He chuckles in my ear and murmurs "Sherlock, I need to breathe."

I loosen my grip regretfully, but the look in his eye as he lifts himself up onto his hands and knees to hover over me dispels any regret. He looks predatory, it is thrilling and I gasp at the sight. He licks his lips and lowers himself. My heart is racing. His prick is hard against my stomach as he kisses me, then he lightly bites my bottom lip and I can't help but moan. He is overwhelming me, making me his, it's everything I ever wanted.

I throw my head back as he kisses my throat, then he settles back to sit on my thighs, our cocks are touching. Oh God, he is so warm, so hard against me, I almost forget how to breathe. I stare down at us, together, and I see his hand take hold around both of us. Aah, he's touching me. I can feel his fingers, so warm, my nerves are singing, thrumming, jolts of pleasure shoot directly from my cock straight to my brain. He's stroking us, holding us together, I'm his, I'm yours John, yours. "Nnah." I'm making noises, I can't help it. He can't reach around the full girth of us so I join him, my trembling hand holding the other side. My breath stutters and he gasps as I touch him for the first time.

I look up into his eyes and see tears beginning to form. He is staring at me. Has he changed his mind? No, please, he said he loves me. Everything else is forgotten, our hands have stopped moving over us. My chest hurts. All I care about is his eyes, filled with tears. No! Please. I wipe one away with my free hand, and he smiles down at me. "Happy tears Love, I'm just so fucking happy."

I sigh in relief, the crushing weight over my heart lifts, and I smile. I gently squeeze our cocks, dragging a shaky laugh out of him, and I have to hold my breath to prevent an embarrassingly loud moan that tries to rip it's way out of my throat.

"Bastard." It's an insult, but the way he says it makes it sound like Love.

He's moving his hand again and I'm accompanying it, my hand moving in concert. He is in control. I want him in control, I want him to own me, I want him to decide when and how I should find pleasure. I want to give him my heart, my body and soul for his safekeeping, after all, they've never been particularly safe in my hands. I'm tingling, my groin, my legs, almost like pins and needles, and hot, I'm so hot, I'm sweating all over. 

The rhythm is speeding up now. My body is shaking, my hand is clutching desperately at the bed sheets and I can't stop making small sounds in the back of my throat. I'm alternating between watching as our cocks slide in and out of our fists, and watching his face, tension written all over it, his eyes screwed up tight, his teeth gritted. He's holding back. Holding back for me. 

I manage to gasp "Let it go John, please." His eyes snap open and lock onto me. His hips thrust two, three times and then he is coming, covering my hand and stomach with his warm semen, uttering over and over "Love you, I love you, I love you." He is beautiful in his joy. 

He settles back to sit on my thighs again and releases us, then takes me in hand. I am holding his hips so hard I'm worried I will bruise him, but I can't release my fingers. He's stroking me, it feels wonderful, arousal is pooling in my groin, a warm squirming thing, but I'm worried I'm taking too long. Will he be cross that I haven't come yet? It's always been hard for me to let go, to cross that boundary. He must see the worry on my features because he starts to whisper encouragements.

"You're doing so well. You're beautiful. Come on Love, I've got you." The praise and endearments continue, he loves me, he really loves me. My muscles tense, my stomach is tight, my legs are rigid, and my feet are almost cramping from the tension. My hips are thrusting of their own accord, up into his fist. I'm almost there, so close. My eyes are hooded, but I can still see his face as he licks his lips slowly, provocatively, and removes my hand from his hip. He raises it to his mouth and sucks in two fingers, swirling his tongue around them. That's it. My muscles spasm, the warmth in my pelvis shoots through my whole body, I moan long and loud as come shoots out of me, wave after wave of it, all over his fist and onto my stomach to join the puddle of his come that is already there. The sight of it is enough to draw one last shudder out of me, then I go lax.

The edges of my mind are filling with fog, sleep threatening to pull me under, but I fight against it. I want to savour this moment. 

John is smiling at me, speaking to me, but I can't make out the words. I shake my head, trying to wake myself up, he chuckles and says "That was amazing." He leans down and holds me, rolling us onto our sides, we are wrapped around one another, sweaty and sticky but I couldn't care less. John kisses me gently, on my lips, on my cheek. I kiss back, any part of him that comes near to my lips. 

Our kisses are becoming lazy, slow, sleep is overtaking both of us. It feels good, warm, safe, encircled in his arms. I am drifting away, but, NO, I haven't said it. I haven't said the words. Suddenly I'm wide awake. I have to tell him. His eyes are closed but he is still a little awake, snuggling into me, tucking his head under my chin and pressing his lips against my chest.

"John! John! I forgot."

"Wha'd you forget Love?" He's mumbling, barely awake.

"I love you! I love you John. I didn't say it."

" 's ok, got the idea. Love you.... let's sleep awhile." 

Now that I've told him I feel waves of exhaustion overtaking me again. I tip my head down to nuzzle his hair and smile. My eyes are closing, body relaxing, mind shutting down, and I am happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you have enjoyed this visit inside Sherlock's mind.
> 
> I just feel bad that poor John forgot to eat his breakfast ;-)
> 
> I am DaisyFairy1 on Tumblr.

**Author's Note:**

> I am DaisyFairy1 on Tumblr.


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